See, This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
by Intense Mango
Summary: When the MHS vibraphone is murdered, it's up to two Pit members to figure out who murdered their favourite instrument. But, soon, they figure out the murderer might not be who, and what, they suspect...


Mr. Dubose groaned as he stepped out of his car, contemplating whether he should frantically chase down the drill sheets being blown across the parking lot, or if he should just yell at his students for an hour or two, making it up as he went. He smiled a bit. Yes, the last one sounded very nice… His train of thought was broken, however, by two students walking towards the doors to the band hallway, yelling at each other. He frowned. The yelling was completely unnecessary, and it ruined his morning. He growled. Why did all teenagers have to be such morning people?

The students in question were both members of Pit and, according to the perceived stereotype, were supposed to be cranky, self-loathing, lazy nerds. Depending on who you talked to, most in the MHS band would probably say the stereotype was incorrect. The others would be dealt with shortly, probably by being kidnapped and maimed by Autumn's zombie pirate slaves. Unless, of course, Autumn forgot to pay them, again. Then, you would be tied to a chair and forced to listen to Patrick practice his music on the Xylophone…with his obnoxiously hard mallets…on the highest octave…over and over and over and over and… Ahem.

Patrick, arguably the louder of the two, was 6'2", had short curly dark brown, and, until very recently, had hated Autumn with the white hot burning passion of one thousand suns. Now, he only had the occasional breakdown, followed by offerings of food and money by Autumn, and then he was fine with her again. Oh, and he's pretty awesome at mallet instruments.

Autumn, obviously the more obnoxious of the two, was 5'5", had long wavy brown hair with blonde highlights, and loved everyone. Yes. Loved. In "that way". Except for chicks. She don't swing that way. *snap snap head roll* Her openness is despised by some, but often makes for amazing Truth or Dare games at parties. She can also play timpani like a flippin' beast.

Anyway, Patrick and Autumn were currently arguing about…something. Nobody could quite tell. It started out as a casual conversation about scales and evolved into…well…this.

Patrick let out an exasperated sigh, and angrily yanked the door to the band hallway open, "Look, Autumn, I promise you, F double flat is E FLAT."

Autumn darted through the closing door and yelled, "Then, why didn't they just write E FLAT?!"

Patrick spun around quickly, looking extremely annoyed at Autumn's lack of musical knowledge, "Because it wouldn't fit the CHORD, Autumn!"

He nodded his head in disapproval. Autumn shrugged and approached Patrick, stopping about two feet away. Patrick, a bit confused, blinked, "Um…what're you-"

He was cut off when Autumn's fist connected with his gut, causing him to double over in pain. Patrick looked up, glaring at Autumn, "Ooooow! What the hell?!"

Autumn smiled and placed her hand on his shoulder, "I love you."

Patrick shrugged her hand away and grumbled, "Don't touch me…"

Autumn laughed and skipped away into the band room, Patrick left trying to place Autumn's friendship level on his scale of one to ten. Just as he was settling on somewhere around seven, Mr. Dubose silently walked in, leaving the air several degrees cooler as it tried to reach homeostasis with his heart. He stopped in front of Patrick, who was still in slight pain, and snapped, "Patrick! Why aren't you loading the Pit carts?"

Mr. Dubose gave Patrick no time to respond, and he continued, "You should be in that band room, helping Autumn. GO!"

Patrick winced and swallowed nervously, "Um, yes. I'll go do that, now."

Mr. Dubose glared after Patrick as Patrick quickly stumbled into the band room.

A small freshman clarinet player, pouting, entered the band hall through the door behind Mr. Dubose. His reed had broken, so he was going to ask Mr. Dubose if he had a spare, seeing as the band director used to play clarinet himself. He lightly tapped Mr. Dubose on the shoulder, "Um, Mr. Dub-"

Mr. Dubose spun around and screamed at the freshman, "WHAT?!"

The poor freshie shrunk back in fear, eyes wide with terror, lower lip quivering, "I…I-I'm sorry, Mr. Dubose… It won't happen a-again." He threw himself at Mr. Dubose's feet, "PLEASE DON'T HURT ME, SIR!"

The band director growled and kicked the clarinet player away from his feet. He then walked into the band room, leaving the freshman in a crumpled heap of fear and sadness.

The events that follow his entrance will require this clichéd warning: No band geeks/instruments/pastries were harmed in the following chapter.


End file.
